


Tales of Gotham: What lies beneath

by Asia191



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternative Universe - Batman, Arkham Asylum, Batman: Sawamura Daichi, Crimes & Criminals, GCPD: Mostly Shiratorizawa, Gotham City - Freeform, Gotham City Police Department, I'll put characters' roles when I publish the chapters they're in:, LDDLL: Mostly Aoba Johsai, M/M, Madness, Mystery, Organized Crime, Plot Twists, Slow Build, So is quite vintage I think, Story is set in 1976, The Penguin: Daishou Suguru, There are a lot of characters so I'll put them little by little, Try to guess who will be whom!, Villains, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 14:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10573110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asia191/pseuds/Asia191
Summary: «The only way to get information from this city is diving in it, Iwaizumi. But don’t underestimate it, or it will never let you return to the surface. And once you are down there–»A moment of silence, and while the wind howls in his ears Iwaizumi suddenly realizes he can finally hear it, now that they are pretty attentive and accustomed to its breathing and its language.Gotham is talking to him. It has never stopped talking to all of them, continuously.He can feel it nuzzling around them, crawling under their steps, hoarsely breathing from the manholes covers and across dark alleys, looking for someone or something, stealing what remains or what it’s enough for it to live on; he can indeed feel it, and that’s strange and wrong maybe, but it’s sufficient to make him conscious about how different from all the other cities it is, impalpable as a whisper, constantly changing as it puts down its roots in dresses and hearts of all the people who travel daily those roads as long and busy during the day, as cold and breathy at night.« –I assure you, you can’t breathe».





	1. Adhuc sub iùdice lis est

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for opening my ff! This is my first long and I'm super happy and scared by it, ahah! ; v ; ) It's a fanfiction divided into 17 chapters, and I know probably the first one is so slooow but I needed it to start from somewhere! Hope I won't annoy you, happy reading! (?)

**1.** _**Adhuc sub** _ **iùdice** _**lis est** _

__**  
** [The case is still awaiting trial]  
_Orazio, Ars poëtica, 78_

  
  


  
  


  
  


**GOTHAM CITY – _Arkham Asylum (Arkham City)_**

**17/12/1976 – Afternoon**  
  
_Arkham Asylum._

The sound of the alarm echoes scratched and low against the gray and ruined walls of the enormous room, spreading through the air as a lamp protected by a rusty grate and nailed to the wall rotates on itself, softening with an orange color the dirty floor composed by large dark tiles.

Yaku waits in silence, his hands finding refuge inside the long double-breasted coat and, while waiting for the armored doors to open through-and-through, he brings his chestnut brown irises to stare at the prison guards in front of him, eyes slipping from their blue helmets and uniform of the same color to focus on the jackets with ' _Security_ ' written on them, a simple word enough to break the dark monochrome characteristic of their uniforms.

  
  


«After you».

He hears one of them saying when the deafening sound finally ceases to cleave the air, and he makes a nod of thanks before overcoming them both, the agents he brought with him from the police headquarters following him a few feet away. In the distance he can hear a background of moans and screams penetrating the incessant sound of rain, while he can hear it falling like a tearful ride on the wide and high grating windows of the corridor consecutive to the supervised entrance.

«How long ago did they catch him?»

Iwaizumi materializes at his side immediately after passing the guards room, and Yaku does not need to look at him to become fully aware of how that news is still difficult for him to digest, he who has worked for many years at the Penguin case without being able to have enough evidences to consign him to Justice.

Not that he hadn’t _tried_ to do that in the past, it has to be said: Inspector Iwaizumi came in his department at least ten years before, and Yaku is pretty certain he have seen him spending at least the last _five_ ones trying to catch the criminal now behind bars, showing at some point a commitment close to devotion.

In the end it has been necessary for Yaku, a few months before and taking advantage of his being the highest ranking of his district, to force him to move forward, revoking his permission to consult night after night the memos transcribed by his colleagues years before - or those circumstantial evidences now on _statutes of limitations_ \- and asking him to participate to the new cases occurring in those days that would have allowed, perhaps, to Inspector Iwaizumi to go home before dinner at least once a week: an alternative the other one had not taken very well, but that had avoided him ruining his health and sanity in front of that sudden change of attitude Penguin suddenly had.

«A few hours ago, they should have taken him to an isolated cell in the Intensive Treatment Center».

He answers as they are stopped by another couple of security officers, this time armed. He shows - for what he’s quite sure it’s the third time in the last ten minutes – his GCPD badge, the leather cover opened horizontally just to be closed again shortly after, seeing one of them moving back and relaxing the shoulders.

«Commissioner Yaku, GCPD. They are Inspector Iwaizumi and Chief Superintendent Ushijima».

He states, quickly turning around to indicate the two men behind him; he can see both of their hands slipping off their coats to pull out their identification cards, showing the silver badge concealed in the cases containing them, before bringing the attention back to the agents in front of them, nodding weakly in response to their approval nod.

«Are you here for Penguin?»

«Exactly. We need to ask him some questions to make sure of his guilt».

«Haven’t you already done it? He wouldn’t be there by now, otherwise».

Yaku’s gaze remains motionless, fixed to the agent who asked the question while his long green irises leave grooves on that initially skeptical face, remaining there long enough so that a clear discomfort starts to make room in that expression so confident until a few moments before.

Eventually the guard gives up, and eyes go to slide insecure out of his sight and on the walls, looking for nonexistent leaks or damp and mold spots (actually already widely present almost everywhere) that can easily be seen in the corners, propped up like ants traveling in the highest parts of the room while chasing exposed pipes or ghosts of the ones hidden behind reinforced walls.

«Cell 117».

Yaku nods, waiting for the agent to turn around and lift the arm up to give the permit to a third person on an elevated watch tower to open the steel and cement tailgate; he does it too, in his case raising his arm to mention a thanks, before walking through the door following the long corridors, paying attention to the large circled numbers that appear from room to room around him.

  
  


Intensive Treatment Center is one of the largest and deepest structures of the whole Asylum area: it spreads over three floors dug under the ground, and it is adapted to contain up to three hundred criminals at different levels.

Led by one of the uniformed guards, the three policemen pass a series of huge doors horizontally cut, probably apt to lead to other sections of the Asylum prison clearly precluded to them. That results clearer as they go on, the guard accompanying them who seems to allow the exclusive opening of some precise armored doors, and while Yaku sees him talking to the transceiver to request another authorization his gaze drifts to the cameras placed around, between each one of those gray walls, just above red and rounded lamps that illuminate the columns dividing one cell from the other one.

They are all different in their own way: some of them are open and dark inside, other ones are empty, others are closed, while others seem to be almost conscious and _screaming,_ while whoever is on the other side of the security door slams against it, scratching it by the inside or laughing hysterically.

  
  


«Nice place».  
  
Iwaizumi comments a few meters away, and Yaku can’t sincerely help but agree with the other one’s obvious sarcasm as they arrive in front of a giant elevator, grates dark and rusty due to moisture creaking while the guards in defense of the lift open it, letting the four of them enter in that enormous room. Yaku looks at his subordinates, and just as it has been happening for years he’s not too surprised either by the absolute lack of emotion that seem to lodge on Ushijima’s face, nor by the feeling of skeptical disbelief than Iwaizumi’s one seems to transpire.

  
  


When they get to the set plan, however, he rediscovers himself still unaccustomed to certain emotions. Because although it is not the first time he goes down there, nor probably the last, he finds himself every time unbelievably newbie at that knot in his stomach that awaits him as soon as the voices of the detainees come closer, more agonizing, hysterical screams that give way to secret hissing and incomprehensible phrases that are repeated like a dirge for the whole duration of the corridor.

On narrow walls – dividing cells at the sides in orderly and parallel sequence – flat panel displays show the prison symbol twirling lazily around its axis, while the recorded voice of the Mayor expresses in the background an optimistic and politically correct string of concepts and supposedly respectable utopias – to which, moreover, Yaku is quite conscious not even the Mayor himself truly believes no more.

“ _(…) When Amadeus Arkham founded this noble institute, few imagined it would have become a center for analysis and psychiatric rehabilitation for criminals of national level (...)”_

He turns to see, as well as _to hear_ , one of the jailed reciting softly the Mayor’s words: he could clearly distinguish the fingers tightly wrapped around the bars, or the way his face seems to be unnaturally caught between the grates, yet the attention is aimed at those big wide and bloodshot eyes looking maniacally at the monitor. Eyelashes don’t blink, and the pupils don’t fall anywhere else other than those two A combined while circling idly to form a rhombus, the writing _'Arkham'_ clearly visible at their center.

«We're almost there, he’s at the end of this corridor».

The guard's voice catches his attention enough to make him turn his gaze forward again, and while advancing he notices – as a blessing, really – that those screams, after being a backdrop to their walking until now, are becoming more sporadic until disappearing completely, nothing more than a distant background in an almost completely empty room.

  
  


«We put him away from others to avoid problems, he’s pretty good at convincing people to get their hands dirty in his place».

«Trust me, you are not saying anything new».

Yaku hears Iwaizumi replying through clenched teeth, and at those words he reaches him, raising a hand and squeezing his shoulder to force him to just lower his face, meeting his eyes.

«If you want, I’m going in only with Ushijima».

«No».

Iwaizumi answers immediately, staring at him intensely until Yaku sighs, pulling his hand away and turning to follow the guard in the anteroom of the cell.

«As you wish. We’re entering then. After you, Inspector».

  
  
  


°°°°

  
  
Cell 117 was not only different in the space it was located, being as much as possible away from any useful exit and in a place more isolated and more monitored by the cameras compared to the other ones: that would have been rare, but definitely not a _single case_.

What made it really different was the internal construction of the room, which was – contrary to the others – divided into two parts, separated by a steel grating where two cement benches were placed one in front of the other – evidently an appropriate position to allow doing an interrogation without forcing the guards to attend the prisoner's movement around the jail.

  
  


The lights, vertically more narrow and horizontally longer than the average, were located at such a height not to allow even the highest human to get themselves too close, to touch the wires or simply to find a handhold to use as a lever to grab on; It might seem an odd choice, but it was a precaution became necessary since the last prisoner had tried to tear the structure from the ceiling, searching in the ducts probably hidden beyond a possible escape route.

Not that these countermeasures were really needed, knowing the ways – incredibly astute ones, dangerous as only the bureaucratic foolishness were meant to be – through which The Penguin used to escape from the law.

  
  


°°°°

**The Penguin / (?)**  
_Occupation_ : Restaurateur, Racket Boss  
_Real Name_ : Suguru DaiShou  
_Appearance_ : Man, green hair with side fringe, pitch black eyes  
_Features:_ Crime and finance genius, expert in close combat.

°°°°  
  
Yaku enters in the small room, but he’s not surprised to find the criminal lying on his back, hands elegantly placed on the sternum, closed eyes and short straight hair, colored as thick green oil while softly resting on a plasticized cushion left on the bare mattress. Commissioner takes a few steps toward the bench, without ever raising his eyes from him, and he can almost feel the mocking atmosphere that the other one can transpire: that sarcasm with which he thinks about them while, fully aware of how everyone has finally entered inside, corners of his lips tilt upwards in a subtle but incredibly annoying way.

God: it is already _enough_ to procure a slight tic to Yaku’s eyebrow who, however and perhaps not in a totally unexpected way for the detainee, decides just to beat his knuckles firmly on the bars, starting then to talk in a tone barely higher than usual.

«Penguin, we have some questions for you». 

He announce harshly, observing with increasing irritation as the only effect of those words is the way in which the corners of the other’s mouth become sharper, the position that remains entirely similar to the one adopted previously his request.

«Commissioner, what an honor to see you going _so down_ just to see me».

Those narrow eyes open up, and sneaky irises stare at the group on the other side of the bars as a clearly provocative smile opens that smooth and milky face, probably amused by the ambivalence of that sentence pronounced by himself.

«Same pleasure to see you _here_ , Penguin. I must say that the atmosphere of a psychiatric prison suits you well».

The Penguin hisses a laugh through clenched teeth before finally deciding to sit, a long and wavy lock that goes to move completely on the left side of his face, leaving uncovered both his narrow eyes and thin eyebrows.

«Too bad your trip was a waste of time, Commissioner: I have no interest in answering your questions, whatever they are».

His pupils become thinner while he says it, and in the consecutive silence Yaku can clearly hear Iwaizumi moving irritated next to him, vibrating like a wild dog waiting to attack. Maybe it really wasn’t a good idea to take him down there.

«Penguin».

Yaku turns towards Ushijima, remained silent until then and still motionless on his left, and for a second that tall and impassive gaze make him feel like he’s in front of Wakatoshi’s father, that austere and careless expression he has seen so many times on honorary portraits around the department belonging to previous commissioners who have brought honor to their district.

«Commissioner Yaku can have the willing to meet you halfway–»

Yaku frowns, reflecting upon where the other wants to actually get with that speech. If someone else had told it he could think of that comment as an attempt to weaken his position, but considering is Ushijima the one talking right now, skepticism is high enough to make him reconsider it rather quickly.  
  
« –But I don’t forgive who obstructs Justice».  
  
His voice is low and husky, yet for some reason there is no heat in his words, only the ice and humidity of the cell that all of a sudden seem to become even more extreme and unbearable, leaving an uneasy feeling that with all chance makes The Penguin silent for much longer than he intended. Yaku sees the villain staring at his subordinate carefully, all of a sudden serious again and incredibly attentive to the other’s words, and Ushijima’s pupils reflect in his own, silence lasting into the small room while waiting to be hatched by its cocoon of expectations.

«Ah– How difficult it is to be innocent on these times. One might almost make false statements to avoid having to submit a second too long at those inquisitors eyes».

The Penguin finally raises his hands, arms folded while shoulders lift for a few seconds, his face shaking slightly at the sides.

«Too many guards made me questions during these hours. But you are not like them, right? You feel special, that's why you're here. I feel it on my tongue---»

And indeed in saying it he slips out that tight muscle, slightly forked on the tip, indicating it with the long pale index and long nail, his face up while it rolls upwards and downwards for a few moments, testing the flavor of the atmosphere around him before retreating back into the warm cavity behind his lips.

«I feel the air stagnating with doubts and questions that you drag behind. Your smell of decency and Justice is almost sickening, my tongue haven’t collected such clean odor molecules for a long time. Not even one of the guards who took me here was half the smell you seep, I can’t imagine how it must feel to be in the minority in a place where you should all be loyal to certain visionary ideals».

«Our guards do their job, Penguin. We didn’t take you here to submit them to a test of loyalty».

Yaku responds slightly piqued, his arms crossed as he moves just enough to force the criminal to put the attention on him again, attracted by the movement like a snake looking for a possible prey.

«It's better for them then, ‘cause I'm not sure how many would pass the test, otherwise. But stop calling me Penguin, it is a name _they_ gave me too long ago and too many times I have – how can I say? – changed my _skin_ , in the meantime. Although that inspector does not seem to be particularly conscious about it, considering how he’s looking at me since he came in».

Yaku takes a few seconds to figure out whom the other one is talking about, but the way Iwaizumi is looking at The Penguin is enough to get a clear idea about who is subject of the sentence, the inspector's eyes that become thinner while his jaw struggle to control his mouth, or perhaps anger, or perhaps both.

He tightens his lips, wondering for what appears to be the hundredth time whether he was right to take Iwaizumi with him, and he tries in the meantime to remember if there is one main reason why he did it. When he received the news of the capture of The Penguin, only a few hours before, he had initially been very unwilling to make the inspector Iwaizumi aware of it; but in the end, and considering the precedents, he convinced himself it was the right thing to do, assuming that seeing him behind bars might have helped his subconscious to compete with the other one, to realize he was true and human, keeping him away from the perception similar to a nightmare that he found himself chasing during the previous years.

But now, seeing him like this, he understand how the effects of that meeting are still impossible to predict, and doubt returns to insinuate toxic into his head as he strives to return to look at The Penguin, irritation increasing and always more difficult to contain. 

«We know you’ve changed your way of working, and since you’ve opened the Iceberg Lounge your name is no longer intervened in any investigation, too. But about changing what you are─ tell me, then: how should we call you?»

Thin lips stretch out to draw a snaky smile on the villain's face, and a hand goes to rest on the chest while he stands up, emulating a bow before returning to stare mischievous at the Commissioner.

«Many now call me by my name, but you can call me Snake. However, Commissioner, I have to say I always imagined you taller, do you know? Instead you are short enough to seem like a little mouse, are you still sure you want to stay in this cell for such a long time?»

Ah, he shouldn’t have said this.

There aren’t many things for which Yaku is really able to lose patience, but surely the height argument is one that anyone, knowing him, has no difficulty understanding it is better not to mention in his presence. Pulsation on the left temple distinctly increases at the other’s words, and before he could avoid it he slams a distinct fist against one of the gratings of the cell, a sharp sound that echoes in the room for a few seconds while the vibration of the pole continues to silence some background noises.

«Learn your place, Snake. Wherever I want to stay is not your interest, and I didn’t come here for this. The only reason you're in this cell is to answer my questions, and it will be what you will do until I decide it is enough. Do you know what you have been arrested and taken here for, at least?»

God, if only he could remove that slight yet so incredibly arrogant smile from that snaky face.

«Mhm– I’d have a list of hypothesis, so why don’t we narrow it down and _you_ tell me instead, little mouse?»

«As you wish, then. You have been charged for having carried out all the recent crimes committed this week in Gotham city: witnesses claim to be certain of your guilt for the robbery at the Gotham National Bank on last Tuesday, for the burglary at the Museum of Natural Sciences of this Sunday and for the fire started at Park Row yesterday. In these nights, as you know, many civilians have died, together with homeless, vigilant and guards. For this reason you are accused of false report, terrorism, premeditated murder and probably genocide, too».

«Aren’t these too many things to do in a week, Commissioner?»

«It seems like you got busy, but you’re the one who could tell us if that’s the case».

Silence falls in the cell, and Yaku can clearly see in Snake’s look a trace of something he might not hoped to see, but that he evidently can not ignore.

Confusion.

It lasts only for a moment, of course, ‘cause Snake is fast to put on the usual controlled and wiseacre facade, his smile stretched and his expression shrewd while he returns to his seat, one of the two hands serving as the linchpin as the other one goes in the air, palm facing upwards and his wrist bent while he shakes his head slightly, in denial.

«Ah, what an uncomfortable situation. You know, Commissioner, though it would be interesting to see what you are prepared to blindly accept just to be able to find convincing evidences to keep me locked here, I am sorry to tell you that I’m innocent. And that if there's one thing I hate more than to end up in this dump when guilty, it is to be here for something that I didn’t do. So, even if I’m flattered you thought of me for all these artistic performances, I hope you’ll be as far away as possible from Gotham when I get out of here, because I tend not to react well with people who lie».

Yaku tightens his jaw, while he can clearly see the guard at the entrance instinctively moving his hand on the submachine gun he has been kept lowered until a few seconds before, raising it slightly and just stretching out his feet, to gain a more stable center of gravity.

«No».

He just says, turning to face him for a few seconds and raising an arm in the air, motioning to stay back. 

«No».

He repeats, this time turning to Snake and pointing his brown and determined eyes towards the other one, his eyebrows furrowed in a tough expression and his face dark and diplomatically hostile.  
He did not intend to ignore the clear threat the other one has just done, but he does not believe it is wise to create a truly physical friction within a prison potentially full of enemies. The guard is probably young and has no idea of the revolts carried out in the last years within that structure; but Yaku does, and he doesn’t not plan to risk.

Not that day.

«Mhhm? No? So how about you pass me the baton and answer to my question? That’s my turn».

And Snake smiles again, his tongue that slides out of thin lips one more time while his eyebrows relax in a mocking expression.

«When you’ll let me get out of here, can I have you as my chaffeur?»

  
  


  
  


°°°°

  
  


  
  


**GOTHAM CITY –** _**Arkham Asylum Exterior (Arkham City)** _

**17/12/1976 – Sunset  
**   
The cold air of the wind that lash the three policemen cheeks as soon as the last door of the Intensive Treatment Center building opens is like the heat of the sun kiss on a spring day, so it is silently awaited by all of them.

It's still not early but, though it isn’t even five o’ clock, evening is already oncoming, dark and moonless while few stars that should already be visible at this time are instead hidden by the thick blanket of smoke coming out as from the high chimneys on the edge of the town, as from public transports that make their pollution rise, climbing on the palaces; nevertheless, Yaku is pretty sure to want nothing more in that moment to be out there, even in his awareness of living in one of the most polluted cities in the world, his shoes that trample on the dry soil and the creak of the gates that accompanies their exit from the Arkham Asylum.

He can almost feel the grooves created on his back by the eyes of the guards who are controlling them from the distance, while located on a tower to the side of the grating they have just passed, but he pretends not to notice it as he approaches the car they have parked there a few hours before, Ushijima and Iwaizumi following. When they’re all inside the small doors close, but the car does not start right away, while Yaku turns instead to look at the two passengers on his right and behind him, his eyes watchful and his voice confidential.

«We need evidences».

If Ushijima remains silent to stare at him from the back seats, Iwaizumi instead scoffs at that, probably still in a bad mood because of the meeting just happened and that fortunately has not seen anyone losing their temper – something that Yaku, until the end and knowing how much Snake loves to instigate, feared would have inevitably happened.

«We have no choice, the clues are few and if we took now the case to the Prosecutor he would not pass more than twenty-four hours locked in that cell».

He whispers loudly enough to be heard even from the other two of them, his gaze moving down while the thumb and forefinger of his right hand give a little pressure to the eyes socket with the nose, frowning.

«What do you two think of his words, anyway? The fact that he claims to be innocent is─»

_Weird_ , it is what he would like to say, but he does not finish the sentence because saying it out loud would be like admitting and making painfully real what all of them are thinking and that are not going to say: because if Snake was responsible for these criminal acts, he would have hardly articulated the conversation that way; because if he was really guilty, he would hardly have got caught; and, above all, if indeed he was the one who organized such a thing, he would hardly have them dropped so clearly in the argument, not without any attempts to get out from that situation as soon as possible. And this suggests that, although it is hard to accept, he’s probably not the instigator of all those crimes.

«Thinking about his words will not guide us to anything, anyway. In the end even Snake, though equipped with the gift of a somewhat irritating gab, is a psychopathic. Trying to understand how his mind works would be a war lost from the start. But unfortunately─»

And here silence falls again, because words at this point have to be measured well.

«... ─Unfortunately something is not _right_. We have not certainties, but _hypothetically_ if he is not the criminal we’re looking for, or if he’s not alone, we can’t ignore we should try to find the culprit somewhere else».

He sighs then, like he has suddenly remembered about something particularly uncomfortable he had not considered until now, as he actually has.

«Knowing the Mayor, however, he will push to close the case before the election. Which leaves us little time to find concrete evidences to work on».

«We will seek information».

Iwaizumi’s voice is clear even if the man is still with his face down and his eyes closed, and Yaku stops to listen to him, seeing with one eye Ushijima turning to do the same. 

He knows what Iwaizumi means with _information_ , and he nods, agreeing with the idea.

«Perfect. I will go to the Department in the meantime, someone has to warn the Mayor about the news and sadly this is my job. Ushijima?»

But Ushijima is already out of the machine together with Iwaizumi. Yaku sighs, turning back towards the steering wheel and pulling out the car keys, remaining to stare at them for a few seconds before tightening them between his fingers and inserting them into the keyhole behind the steering wheel, starting the engine.

An other sigh, before looking at himself in the rear-view mirror, discovering a long and thick wrinkle separating the eyebrows and making explicit a tired and worried expression. 

There will be long days, he can feel it.

«Ah─ God, I hope they have at least fixed the coffee machine».

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of it! As I already said, it probably is too slow. But I really needed it, next chapter has Oikawa in it and he wanted a chapter all for him and Iwaizumi. (...) Anyway! I really hope you liked that introduction, I actually started shipping a little Daishou and Yaku after wrtiting it and I'm so outraged by myself right now. (...) Let me know what do you think!


	2. Anche la lingua è un fuoco, è il mondo dell'iniquità

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God, this fanfiction is soooo slow. Sorry about that-- Anyway: finally Oikawa! I have to say I really like his role in this fanfiction, so I really hope you'll find him interesting too! See you at the end of the chapter! :)

**2\. Anche la lingua è un fuoco, è il mondo dell'iniquità**

**(Italian)**

**[Translation: And the tongue is a fire, the very world of iniquity]**  
_James_ _3: 6_

  
  


**GOTHAM CITY** **-** **La Danse de le Langues (Burnley)**

**17/12/1976 - Later, after sunset**

  
  


Iwaizumi had always thought the avenue where the entrance of _La Danse de le Langues_ was had been built – even if _before_ the real birth of that activity – with the clear intention to host those buildings famous for the same businesses that club was known for, a place recognizable to everyone – customers or not – for its characteristic gray and green external and the elegant and bright sign outside.

Located in the upper part of the city, in the Burnley district to be precise, the avenue was in fact well-known not only for its convenient connection with one of the highest communication tower in the area, but also for being the principal road of the red-light part of the city. _Every year_ the district could see hotels increased in number, each one of them born from buildings sold to large companies after been emptied of their residents, beaten by the screams and the constant parties started in quick succession and without a break night after night. And _every year_ the number of tourists increased as well, people attracted like moths by their irresistible, grotesque needs to know how it _felt_ to touch the most sensual and nocturnal part of Gotham, spending their nights in clubs, lured by males and females’ topless shows, closed in historical porn cinema or shops specialized in adult materials.

_La Danse de le Langues_ had _precisely_ that atmosphere, and it was none other than a cabaret whose name had been – soon or later – on everyone's lips, maybe for the skill of its employees or maybe for the confused and vague stories that hovered around the performance it is said some of them offered – although _nothing_ has ever been proved.

It was a place able to distinguish itself as for its elegance as for its dancers, in addition to it ample repertoire of ballets and shows that _colored_ with the green of its interiors its clients’ eyes; clients who found in those music and vintage atmosphere one of the main reasons to drive even two hours straight for its evening shows, arriving as soon as the sun went down and returning home just as the luminous electric sign on the avenue turned off.

More than that, it was an easy walk from Arkham Asylum; a value Iwaizumi – that day on feet – had appreciated more than all the information accumulated over the time he passed in Gotham, honestly speaking.

  
  


  
  


Inspector's eyes notice that characteristic sign as soon as he turns the street corner, passing in front of a traffic light blocked on red while walking on a sidewalk that is beginning to be populated only now, after almost a full day passed in its drowsiness; he imperceptibly lengthens his stride, looking down to avoid being recognized while he motions to Ushijima to follow him, and he apologizes with an impatient gesture when he almost ends up investing a man, casually making his hand slipping on his GCPD badge before heading over, not preferring a word.

The long windows of _La Danse de le Langues_ are covered with neatly aligned posters, and Iwaizumi can see on the first ones a parade of drawings about women and men dancing, hugging together, smiling or holding arm, can-can traditional dresses showing only legs and many layers of petticoats to the public; on others, women are riding or sitting on swings that fall from high ceilings while, on the last, girls seem to wear rich feathered hats, at gallop on foals or sit in a park. French and English titles chase themselves while the inspector exceeds the external covers of the famous club, finally arriving in front of one of the numerous _artistique cabaret_ ’s entrance while a hand lifts one of its heavy emerald curtains that are covering the still closed doors. He presses his palm against the lacquered wood, and finds himself not amazed noticing it being unlocked: that place is close to the opening hour after all, and many employees have to be at work at least a couple of hours before shows start.

As soon as Iwaizumi enters the club, he can’t help but notice how the hall has still a trace of darkness due to its diurnal inactivity: the small lampshades placed on the near counter seem to be the only source lighting up the darkness that grows around him, while small recessed lights concealed in the pale ceiling are mostly still off, giving to the whole location a sleepy look. Walls are of a blue petroleum color, while the high baseboard and the curtains – that alternate the wall’s vision – are white, floor opaque and in a natural walnut shade.

It's been a long, long time since the inspector came in there for the first time, and yet he can’t help but frown seeing how, while in Gotham everything seems to endlessly change like an organism following the desires of its inhabitants, _La Danse de Langues_ seems on the contrary being invisible to time, elusive in its ethereal presence that transcends space and all the years flowing in the meantime outside.

Ah, damn. If remembering time passing is already more tremendous than ever, certainly the memories now inadvertently catching on in his head can’t make him feel any better, _especially_ if they are tied to the reason of his first visit in that club. _How fool_ can be to come to an unknown place looking for a friend missing for years? Just _how fool_ can be to continue looking for him even after an admission at the Gotham police department, requesting then information in free-time while tracing circles on maps attached to the fridge in the kitchen, marking areas where some kind of clues could be probably found? And really, just _how fool_ can be to actually find his so called friend there, just _not_ in the role it was thought from the start he was?

  
  


«–?!?!»

Iwaizumi’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted when he feels someone, or something, crashing unceremoniously against his shoulder, and he frowns more while he sharply turns aside to face the possible culprit, his mouth already hatching in a pale grimace of irritation.

«It would be polite to _apologize_ ». 

He just says, glaring at the man who seems to be higher than him by thirty centimeters at least, a shaved head and a big spider drawn on half of his skullcap. He notices the way the other one is looking down at him, and he is almost tempted to ask if he has something to say when he sees the stranger turning his eyes to the left, where Ushijima has just made a noticeable step to his side, silent yet incredibly _present._

«... Be more careful next time».

He hears the stranger one answering shortly before walking away, and he stays and watches as the huge head disappears in a corridor at the very end of the hall, no saying more. He can feel his honor pressing at the bottom of his sternum, and for a second he’s almost tempted to turn toward Ushijima to tell him how unnecessary was to intimidate the stranger, how he knew how to stand up for himself. But then he stops, both thinking he wants to spend less time possible in that place, both knowing it is definitely not the right time to indulge in similar discussions; besides, he’s not young enough – not _anymore_ – to be that kind of hothead, to say it frankly.

Around them, in the meanwhile, luxury seems to have transported them in a huge antique picture: from the marble vases that are placed stable on long benches or on high refined wood tables with plated gold trimmings, to the imperial columns that rise from the floor to support the large elegant entrance, everything is perfectly aligned to communicate an anachronistic idea of antiquity and history. Not even a scratch seems to damage that artificial perfection, and Iwaizumi wonders for a moment if people really fail to see how such invincibility from everything and everyone in a city like Gotham can only mean the presence of a criminal mind behind.

He doesn’t even know anymore if it seems so obvious to him because he’s a cop, or if it is _really_ that difficult to recognize; but seeing as tourists continue to travel for dozen kilometers just to see even only one of its famous shows, or looking at the way all Gotham newspapers devote their front page to its _Prima_ every November, or noticing as young couples continue to buy serene and curious their tickets at any time of the afternoon, without a hint of fear or worries in their faces, it seems like its front is very stable.

Not that he has any evidence, among other things. Despite being a family-run cabaret, passed from parents to their children for a long time, it seems that no one has ever done _enough_ explicit illegal trafficking to be officially investigated for any type of wrongdoing.  
There are rumors, of course, but really: is there a place in Gotham not affected by them?

  
  


«Stop».

At hearing that request Iwaizumi actually stops, but only because in front of him there is the person he was expecting to meet from the principle. Even if he’s not very enthusiastic at the idea to follow orders of someone who clearly isn’t very experienced at following orders in his turn, it remains that the inspector is actually in an area not very favorable to the his GCPD badge, and for this reason he’s not so very inclined to put himself in trouble, not until strictly necessary.

«I have to talk to the _King»._

He answers instead, trying to be as diplomatic as possible despite his tone comes out more authoritarian than he has expected it to be, eyes fixed on chestnut brown ones. He notices that kinda-watch-dog frowning too, eyebrows so thin to be almost transparent, while a low growl escapes his lips, parted in warning. How could such a rowdy guy endure hours of waiting to dye his short and frizzy hair, it’s still a mystery: a total blond covering all his head would have almost been believable, maybe, but Iwaizumi can see two streaks of black sharply dividing his skull from ear to ear, and that– well. For what he knows, a partial dye is a whole different story.

The inspector holds his gaze, waiting for the other to realize the situation or, at least, to _remember_ him, given it’s been years since he firstly appeared in that club, and _always_ making the same request. But it seems the situation has reached a dead end, and this is enough to put him a bad moon: God, he _really_ didn’t want to play that card.

«Ushijima». 

He feels his colleague’s eyes focusing on him, waiting.

«Show him my badge».

Sweet God, _how much_ he wanted to avoid it. Ushijima himself thinks the same probably, fully aware how releasing full name and address in a similar place is more counterproductive than anything else; but in the end he seems to reach the same awareness of Iwaizumi, and a hand goes to slide carefully on his jacket, in search of what he has asked for.

Ah, damn. Serving up on a plate all the information necessary to identify him in thousands of people definitely doesn’t look like a wise choice, no matter how much you think about it: but at least he will have a legal obligation to take them to see the owner of the nightclub, after he’ll see it.

«Kyotani, let them go; the _King_ already knows these people. One, at least». 

Ushijima stops himself, withdrawing his hand away to see a stranger’s one appearing on the blond boy’s shoulder, and the inspector can see the pressure those phantom fingers put on their grab, causing the annoyed partner to snap his tongue through his teeth as a response. Iwaizumi doesn’t need to see the source of that voice, because after so many years _he_ has learned to recognize his voice, _he;_ but he’d be lying if he said he’s sorry to see the only one able to calm that wild dog called Kyotani, soft brown hair that slip into the air while serious eyes glare at him, checking quickly for any weapon in sight. Everything as usual.

«Yahaba. Is he here?»

Iwaizumi greets him with a slight nod before asking, studying the other one as his eyes drift down on his waist, looking for holsters or strange folds of the shirt. Everything as usual, indeed.

«He's always here, Inspector». 

A hint of a smile opens Yahaba lips as he talks, and Iwaizumi can not help but emulate the same expression hearing that answer.

«Are you saying it because it's true, or because many of his official alibis are based on that?»

«Alibis, Inspector? I sincerely don’t know what you're talking about». 

«Naturally. Ushijima–»

Iwaizumi’s glance flies to the other cop, and just as Ushijima’s eyes meet his owns he moves his head to the side, in a silent request to follow him. They pass the two men in elegant clothes, taking a nearby corridor beside the entrance hall, and steps become softer as the wood flooring is replaced by the carpet, wall lamps lighting the turquoise green walls while galvanized profiles are interspersed with sound-absorbing panels in a viridian color; Iwaizumi get a glimpse of a series of transparent glass to his right, in which small – and just for now empty – cubicles give a place for young employees to entertain clients who are going to come during the night, and he keeps walking until the area around them returns to widen, opening into a huge room with a series of round tables topped by lampshades similar to those previously seen in the hall.

The main auditorium of _La Danse de le Langues_ is large enough to contain at least three hundred people inside. Each table has a pair of chairs placed one opposite to the other, with mahogany backrests and green pillows but both predisposed towards the stage, wide and still empty for the most – except for some dancers in underwear during their rehearsals, dancing and moving around velvet padding chairs.

Borders of the stage are highlighted by brocade curtains of the same color of the panels, while all around a series of sofas with numerous baroque patterned pillows – gold, emerald and silver ones – soften the room’s corners; their bases are made of light wood, and those who lean on the wall hide its lower half, the upper part ending in a shelf on which candles are placed to illuminate mirrors with round and rectangular frames.

And there he is, at the center of this huge room and sat on one of the chairs next to these tables:  
the _King_ , alias Oikawa.

  
  


°°°°

**King**

_Profession:_ Owner of _La Danse de le Langues,_ Hajime Iwaizumi informant, probably head of a prostitution clique.  
_Real Name:_ Tooru Oikawa  
_Appearance:_ Male, chocolate and slightly wavy hair, same eyes color.  
_Features:_ Son of one of the most influential families of Gotham, business acumen.

°°°°

  
  


Iwaizumi could recognize him anywhere, but it has to be said the other one never puts any kind of effort to be less recognizable than usual. Legs are crossed, elbows are on the chair’s armrests while a cheek rests on the knuckles of his left hand, the right one holding a crystal wine glass by its stem, rotating the limpid liquid inside with a slow and hypnotic movement of the wrist.

The inspector moves forward, stopping only when he is a table away from the other one as his glance remains on him; he stays impassive even when two men appear from the dark, silent and faithful while coming closer to their master, stopping when they arrive behind Oikawa’s chair. Nothing he hasn’t already seen, however: looking at it every time they do it would be quite boring.

«Inspector Iwaizumi, You _finally_ came to see me!» 

Halfway between an authentication and a sentence made by his enthusiasm Oikawa turns his warmest smile at Iwaizumi who, however, doesn’t reply, lowering instead his eyelids while he starts to remove the winter coat, bending it a second before he’s reached by a short and blond girl, came out of the darkness of one of several cubicles at the sides of the auditorium.

«Yachi, lead the inspector’s jacket on my personal wardrobe, so he is certain no one will dare to touch any of his belongings. Not that _anyone_ would ever do such a thing, it has to be said; it is known there are no thieves here. Am I right?»

Iwaizumi observes the young girl disappearing, small and flickering, over a thick dark veil that hides one of the biggest exit of the stage, and he wonders for a moment whether she’s of age or not, or if he should really ask it. But he eventually moves on: as far as Oikawa is without any doubts one of those people he would connect to the worst part of the city at the beginning of his career, it must be said time has come for him to recognize as, among others who infest the city, he has in his own way what many of them lack to have: a moral.

Perhaps, he can’t help but think, he simply learned to distinguish shades of gray existing between white and black. Or perhaps, more than that, a part of him still tends to put a sort of virtuosity in that person he naively thought to know when he was young.

Whatever the answer is, he really hasn’t time to think about it right now, so he simply returns paying attention to Oikawa, going to sit on the only chair distanced in the meantime by a young boy and successively laying his elbows on the shelf, the right hand gathering around the left.

«There's something I need to talk to you about».

«Ah~, it sure took You long enough, Mr. Iwaizumi. Just, I was hoping our meeting would be more– _intimate_. Instead, I see You brought guests, _again_ ».

Oikawa’s eyes slip quickly towards the second policeman, and in an instant that elegant vibe is wildly wasted by a childish and snob expression, hand holding the wine that is lowered to place the cup on the table while the nose weakly curls, eyebrows furrowed in apparent disagreement.

«And more than that, I note _with regret_ that Your tastes are no better than last time, too. I hoped my company had _at least_ changed You in that sense».

Oh, God.  
The inspector close his eyes, lowering both his eyelids for few seconds – ten to be exact, counted one by one in an attempt not to throw his hands around the other’s neck – before reopening them, lips parted to let the most diplomatic answer slipping away from them.

«Ushijima is a police officer, and he’s useful to our department. I do _not_ need to know anything else».

«That’s probably because You’re not doing the _right job_ , or You would know what else is _needed,_ Inspector».

«Whatever it is, I think it's a good thing he _hasn’t_ it».

«And this is the proof You do _not_ pass _enough_ time here».

  
  


Silence falls on the room, and Iwaizumi’s tough expression stays focused on the club owner, judging those hot and arrogant eyes centerpiece of a brazen and impudent look.

«I need some information about a series of crimes occurred in the last three months».

It’s only a phrase, but it’s sufficient to see that brazen look disappearing in the blink of an eye and a deliberately disinterested expression taking in an instant control of that elegant face, his fingertips previously idly occupied to redefine boundaries of the cup slowing down their run until almost stopping it.

«... Why should crimes be competence of a respectful cabaret owner?»

«Are you really asking for an answer?»

The shadow of a smile welcomes that phrase, and after a moment the owner just snap his fingers, calling a tall man behind him with spiky hair unnaturally put upwards, his face long enough to bring Iwaizumi to instinctively associate him to a tulip.

«Kindaichi, why don’t you bring a glass of wine to our guest? So maybe one of us will remind the other one what manners are, as it is expected to happen during a conversation among gentlemen».

Kindaichi lays for a second his glance to Iwaizumi, eyeing then the second officer quite puzzled while standing still, looking back at his boss, perhaps waiting for an other order.

«... Do I have to repeat myself?»

The bartender shakes his head before flinching, simulating a bow before turning toward the counter, put behind a row of white lacquered columns; colors of different alcohol glasses exposed on the shelves create different reflections on the wall behind, and Iwaizumi keeps his glance on that liquid rainbow for some seconds before returning his attention to Oikawa, summoned by his voice.

«How are things at the department, Inspector? Have You found that mole You were looking for?»

«Yeah, it was pretty easy after receiving the name from an anonymous letter».

Another smile, while the hand returns to lift the cup, raising it the necessary to ensure the light of the lampshades can hit it and make the cabaret owner to look through it.

«Don’t tell me. You own someone a big favor, then».

«No favor, it was an anonymous tip to settle a debt».

Oikawa’s eyes return to gaze at him, indecipherable.

«Always so sure Inspector, even on such things. That’s a shame– for your informer, I mean».

Iwaizumi is ready to answer, but lips are instinctively shut when he sees Kindaichi returning to them, a cup in hand filled at half with a clear liquid; he waits for the other one to lay it on the table, and nods as a thanks before picking it up, letting the aroma coming from the mixture revealing the alcoholic nature of the beverage.

«Fingers on the cup, Mr. Iwaizumi? I thought You were more into Etiquette».

Iwaizumi raises his gaze from the elegant glass as he lays it back on the table, a slightly skeptical expression involuntarily drawn on his face.

«Don’t you know? If you take the cup with your fingers, you’ll cover the wine and it’ll become incredibly difficult to fully appreciate its color, all its nuances, its clarity, its perlage! But, what is worse–».

Oikawa’s eyelids bend down, hand holding the clear nectar making it rippling left and right, just below the nostrils of his nose.

«– Any hands’ perfumes could mingle with the wine’s ones, reducing the possibility to capture the wide range of flavors it offers us. How could we proclaim ourselves connoisseurs of wine then, and why should we buy such an exquisite drink, if we are then unable to drink it in its optimal state? Look at Your colleague, for example; do you really believe he knows how to drink such a pearl of our society?»

Eyelids get up just to watch Ushijima for a few seconds, the cop still standing beside Iwaizumi.

«Yes».

Oikawa probably didn’t expect that answer. His nose curls again, more emphatically this time, while eyes glide back on Iwaizumi, blaming him with a glance as the glass is put aside again.

«... I don’t like this agent _at all_ , Inspector».

Iwaizumi looks at him impassively, his glass put aside too and his work on the front line again.

«Those information, Oikawa».

«Ah, how boring. Are You really that impatient to leave this place as soon as possible?»

Oikawa shakes his head, visibly - or better, _theatrically_ \- hurt from Iwaizumi answer, but in the end he slowly raises his left arm, bending a couple of times his index finger to one of the guards’ direction, asking him to come closer.

«Find Mad Dog, he's probably somewhere with Yahaba. Bring them both here».

Iwaizumi sees the guard nodding quickly before walking away, disappearing behind Ushijima.

«Kunimi».

A second guard comes forward, bending down a little to get closer to Oikawa’s face, who’s still sitting; he can see the club owner whispering something in his ear, before seeing even Kunimi nodding and disappearing in the opposite direction.

  
  


Silence fell in the now incredibly empty room, and Iwaizumi glances at Ushijima, crossing the other one's eyes while staring at him for a moment, waiting. Oikawa’s sigh doesn’t take a lot of time to arrive, _as always_ , while he turns his face toward the inspector, his expression all of a sudden incredibly tired and listless, fingers busy on rubbing the meeting point of his eyebrows.

«Now that we're alone, what do you want?»

«No more Mr. Iwaizumi? I was getting used to it».

«Ah, what can I say? You know that I easily get bored. Especially when it’s about running a game for too long, _Hajime_ ».

«This is not a game, Tooru».

«It looks like your _whole life_ it’s a game, considering how often you put it in danger by asking the wrong things to the wrong people».

Iwaizumi’s expression hardens at those words, and his eyebrows furrow, creating a dense shade beneath them, just in the notch of his eyes.

«You are my only contact, and you know it».

«You shouldn’t have _any_ contacts at all, to have a fair chance of reaching the retirement».

Iwaizumi feels Oikawa’s frustration in those words, his internal struggle between what he would like to say and what he _can actually say_ about the way Iwaizumi chose to live his life, and only ‘cause he can _feel_ his struggle he decides neither to answer nor to continue the conversation: because there would be _nothing_ more than words and discussions they have already dealt with over and over again in those recent years, several times, with zero results.

‘Cause Oikawa has never wanted for him to become a policeman, even when they were still in high school. He could see it clearly, could see the way Oikawa’s eyes lost vitality when Iwaizumi spoke unpretentiously about courses to enter GCPD, tests he needed to pass, annual admissions. He had always seen it, but he never understood why he was so _against_ it, mending the dislike Oikawa had against the police for some sort of childish rebellion against rules, or uniforms in general.

He _didn’t_ and _couldn’t_ know Oikawa had always been more aware of the outside world than him was since both of them were little boys, fully aware of what it was like to be a cop, what it really meant risking every day your life without being sure you’d return home that night, without knowing if one day someone _evil_ would decide you were a danger, and that you had to be eliminated at any cost.

Tooru already knew all of it, and probably had always known about it, because – as Hajime discovered five years ago – he had always lived in that world. Because his family had always been one of those who _commissioned_ those policemen’s murders, belonging to one of the most powerful factions of Gotham, along with Calabreses and Falcones; and just as properties passed from father to son, so _clients_ and _family activities_ swapped from hand to hand, following the bloodline of his family.

That had meant, for Tooru, taking the reins of _La Danse de le Langues_ as a result of his father's premature death during an ambush, just as he finished high school _,_ becoming officially part of Gotham City's organized crime at the age of nineteen, disappearing from the lives of anyone who had previously known to avoid making them easy targets. Disappearing, for this reason, from Iwaizumi’s life too, _especially_ knowing his friend's desire to join the GCPD.

All this had happened years before, and in the present the inspector could understand why Oikawa had to make such a quick decision at that time, not without paying the high price of the regret for all the opportunities lost, among other things. Still, he couldn’t help but feel instinctively _the injured party_ of the situation, because he hadn’t the possibility to _decide_ anything, unlike Oikawa: the day before he had a best friend , the next day Tooru had simply _vanished_.

He had looked for him for weeks, months, years. He had asked to everyone, sure disappearing in that way only could meant something serious happened to his friend, ‘cause there could be just a reason Oikawa hadn’t tried to stay in touch with him in any way:

He was being held against his will somewhere.

That's why, once he joined GCPD and had the opportunity to look for more hooks and more evidences, he used his first vacations to try an other time to find Oikawa, acquiring information full-time until he arrived at that nightclub.

Expecting a slave.

Finding a _King_.

  
  


_«Tooru»._

«... What, _Iwachan_?»

Oikawa seems to be still a little disappointed by him, his fingers rubbing his forehead while his eyes continue being close, waiting for the other one to continue.

«I need help, but if you won’t give me a hand I’ll stay on this case anyway. It's my job».

_I won’t be less in danger, not more than I already am everyday_ ; this is what Iwaizumi would like to tell him, if he didn’t know Oikawa is already well aware of it. Because he knows it, he knows that probably neither of them are destined to reach their elderly, but that’s the life he has chosen entering GCPD, and that’s the life the other one agreed to have when he didn’t object his family’s choice to make him the next boss of his father’s empire. So what right does Oikawa think to have on his life, when he is the first one to ignore dangers his has?

«... I know it, although I still don’t understand why _you_ chose it».

Oikawa just sighs, resting his elbow on the armrest while bending his head to one side, fingers supporting his left temple.

«What do you need?»

«Information about last week’s crimes, in particular those concerning the armed robbery at Gotham National Bank on Tuesday, the breaking and entering at the Museum of Natural Sciences on this Sunday and the fire started yesterday at Park Row **».**

«Hasn’t Penguin already been convicted of them?»

«He’s Snake, now. I see rumor travels fast, these days».

«Suits him. And are you really surprised by it?»

«Hardly».

  
  


They remain silent for few moments, the emerald irises of Oikawa running into Iwaizumi’s brown ones, until the inspector hears footsteps getting closer to them and predicting the arrival of Kyotani and Yahaba, who appear some seconds later accompanied by the guard sent to call them.

«Mr. King».

«Kyotani, Yahaba. Show our gentle Inspector out, and make sure no one will disturb him until he’ll be outside. We don’t want him to get the wrong idea, do we? This place is only frequented by gentlemen, after all».

And in an instant they both return to their roles, invisible masks returning to conceal emotions while Iwaizumi stands up, promptly reached by the blond girl who timidly gives him his jacket, looking down while her small hands hold the fabric up. He thanks her with a nod, wearing it in a fluid movement before turning to Ushijima, still standing next to the corridor.

«Come on».

He simply declares before approaching the guards, with the idea to follow the request made by the club owner to leave before customers’ arrival. He has never been very excited about watching shows that _La Danse de le Langues_ is used to offer to its customers, honestly speaking; not counting he’s not really sure he is ready to testify against his informer, too, a problem he could face pretty soon if he gets to unwittingly attend some of those famous performance no one seems _to want to have_ any evidences about.

«Inspector Iwaizumi–»

Oikawa’s voice is unexpected at this point, and Iwaizumi turns to look at him just in time to see the other one lifting his cup up, keeping his gaze on him while the shadow of the arch of his eyes darkens those hazel careful irises.

«Do You know what is the right way to hold a cup?»

Iwaizumi remains silent, trying to figure out if the other one really wants an answer after all the conversation they had before, but seeing the club owner continuing to look at him he frowns, sighing and unfolding his lips again.

«... Keeping the cup away from your fingers?»

Still silence, while the two humans study each other.

«The answer is: It doesn’t matter if there really is a right way to do it».

And with his eyes still on him Oikawa bends his wrist, making the wine slipping out of the cup’s concavity pouring it out abundantly, until spreading it on the dark floor.

«Because wine, however good it can be, it’s worthless once it fell on the ground».

And there’s an other moment of silence, while even the last drops of that clear nectar slips away from the decorated glass, throwing himself on the dark marble.

«Whatever happens, just try to keep the wine in Your glass, Mr. Inspector».

And the glance they share is full of expectations, demands, promises. _I won’t die_ , this is what Iwaizumi would like to say to the other one. But the truth is that life is never a certainty in a city like Gotham, and as a police officer his life expectations are much lower than a normal citizen.

So, in the end, the only thing he can do is to turn around, letting Ushijima lead him and clear the road for him to follow, Yahaba and his colleague after them while he buttons up his double-breasted coat in the meantime, walking quietly in the dark corridors until reaching the exit of the cabaret.

  
  


  
°°°°

  
  


  
  


«How long have we been there?»

He asks to Ushijima, and he sees the other one checking the clock while he brings a hand to his shoulder, making it to rotate lazily. _La Danse de le Langues’_ electric sign is now turned on, he notices.

«Fifty minutes».

He sighs, before following Ushijima along the road.

«–Christ. Every time I go to this place I can never get out of it quickly. We have lost so much time, I only hope it will give us some results».

«He should have come to the GCPD».

Iwaizumi stifles a laugh before taking hands in his pocket, and he lowers his face, partially immersing it into the wide collar of his vest.

«... Oikawa? You couldn’t bring him there even if it was he the one behind all of this, trust me».

«Hard to be prosecuted?»

«Hard to be suspected».

Ushijima turns to look at him, remaining silent for a few seconds while both continue to walk, stepping aside as cars run in the street nearby the sidewalk, making them to instinctively move closer to the buildings at the side.

«Do you plan to inform the commissioner now?»

«Counting he has probably just finished speaking with the Mayor? Hell no. I would avoid it until the end of the world, if I could. But I think we have no standing to do it, so–»

Ushijima’s eyes are fixed straight ahead as his lips half-opens, continuing the other one’s phrase.

«To the department?»

«To the _pub_. For the department, I need another pot of coffee first».

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... You should have come to the Shiratorizawa OIkawa. -cit.  
>  A little post scriptum about the title: Langues is "tongues" in French, so it is linked to Oikawa local! English translation of "La Danse de le Langues" is "Tongues' Dance", in fact, and I think it is a pretty cute name for a place useful to find a good cabaret and good information. Isn't it? (...)  
> See you at the next chapter! :)


	3. Summum ius summa injuria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yaku does a few steps, and only then Hajime notices a tall and dark figure standing at the center of the roof, the cape that moves like oil on the rough cement floor, creating the effect of a nightmare made of flesh and darkness.  
> It’s strange how even a hero – a hero? – doesn’t look like one, in such a dark city like Gotham.

**3\. Summum ius summa injuria**

  


_(Highest Justice, Highest Injustice)_  
Cicero, De officiis, I, 10-33

  
  


  
  


**GOTHAM CITY** **-** **Gotham City Police Department (GCPD)**

**17/12/1976 - 20:00**

  
  


Gotham City Police Department’s headquarters, set in the twenty-third district and remembered more in its acronym GCPD, was founded in 1820 in an old stone building with high windows and ceilings and built on an island on South river’s banks. It was a monumental structure, divided from the rest of the other buildings by two-lane roads and a series of high walls, alternated with guard columns on which were positioned normal and night vision cameras.

The sign _"GCPD"_ lighted with its electric blue neon the main gate, an overhead door equipped with multiple openings and made of bulletproof glass, which allowed guards to control every cop entering the structure, alone or escorting criminals; only when inside it was possible to see a perfect copy of that sign, always blue and incredibly larger in size, dominating the entrance of the department, the first two letters split off from the others to leave sufficient space for the imposing emblem of the structure: an eagle with its long wings spread, a shield set tight between its claws.

  
  


  
  


Ushijima and Iwaizumi briefly greet two sentinels as their hands lie on each one of the two golden handles of the wooden doors’ entrance, pushing them forward to make their way to the large main hall of the department. Sounds are the first things that welcome them, a continuous and irregular noise of typewriters, shoes hitting on the wooden floor scratched by time, people on phones and trilling noises of not-yet-accepted calls. Only then the visual part comes, with lights coming from a tenuous evening running outside the building and passing through large arched windows, high two floors and faintly alternating with the cold and artificial lights produced by lamps.

They continue walking through the hall, seeing those lamps hanging like rigid skeletons from the ceiling, hovering lazily a couple of meters from the gray desks full of papers and stationery items, while in the meantime Iwaizumi can hear the wheels of the chairs quickly rotate on themselves, used by lazy inspectors and overexcited trainees who spin with their heavy bodies from one side of the room to the other, often cutting the way of some colleagues.

«Mr. Ushijima! Still around?»

«… Goshiki».

The inspector stops when he hears a voice calling with a sort of childish arrogance his colleague’s attention, and he turns his head, noticing a tall guy – too _damning_ tall, counting his age – defiantly looking at Wakatoshi.

«Don’t “… Goshiki” me! I thought you returned home, how can I take your place here if you are always at the department?! **»**

Tsutomu’s eyes remain focused with tenacity on Ushijima’s calm and expressionless ones for what seems like an eternity, glaring at the other one still motionless in front of him. The Inspector can _feel_ Goshiki’s expectation vibrating through the air like a violin string, and his gaze slips negligently towards his colleague, idly wondering if time has come for him to finally recognize the efforts that rookie is doing.

«… Do you prefer if I go out?»

«…Wha–? No! This is _not_ the poin– Don’t laugh Inspector, it's no funny!»

Iwaizumi quickly shakes a hand while he lowers his head, snorting a grin as he attempts to contain the sarcasm still in the throat. It's only been few months since Goshiki arrived at the department, but it took just a little to make clear to all agents that, despite all the young man efforts and his constant statements about wanting to occupy his colleague’s position, Ushijima is still far from considering the young recruit of GCPD as a threat to his current Gotham police rank.

He can hear Goshiki bickering with his partner as he turns to look toward the police commissioner office, the young boy probably slightly swelling in front of the imperturbable apathy of his giant companion, before a dejected sigh – but not _defeated_ , maybe a word Goshiki doesn’t even know it exists– puts an end to these attempts of consideration, voice low and controlled again.

«Anyway… Have you managed to catch with your strange informer, Ten-something? He has been calling you pretty loudly until few minutes ago».

**«** Where is he?»

«Mhm? So you haven’t seen him? He should be in jail right now, although he was sitting on Eita’s desk just less then half of an hour ago. I heard Semi telling Shirabu this morning he had a new case to work on, so I think it was just a terrible coincidence they were both there today».

«In jail?»

«Jail indeed». He quickly nods. «I do _not_ know what happened, but all of a sudden I heard your informer saying he was deadly bored, and when I turned around he had already begun to put in the paper shredder all the documents the inspector had on his desk. He seemed rather amused, but Eita wasn’t very happy about it–»

A pause, while Goshiki uses that moment to rub his neck, dark brows furrowed.

«Well, I think in the end he has imprisoned for obstruction of justice, or something like that».

  
  


«Ushijima–»

Iwaizumi sees his colleague turning toward him, his predominant stature flattening because of the distance created between them by the extra steps made by him toward the office of the Police Commissioner in the meantime. Ushijima’s eyes follow his arm as he closes his fist, extending the thumb to indicate to their right, where two flights of stairs lead to a raised stage in front of the commissioner’s office.

«I’m going».

Ushijima nods before he lows an other time his eyes, looking at the young novice with that ridiculously perfect dark fringe covering his white forehead; it will take long, probably.

Iwaizumi returns to walk, climbing the stairs until he’s at the door of the Commissioner, before he knocks hard enough to be heard while he silently enters the room, looking around in search of the head of the police.

  
  


°°°°

  
  


  
  


«Yes Sir, but with all due respect: what I'm saying is that we're _not sure_ he's the one wh– Yes, of course Snake is guilty of other crimes happened in the past, but–»

Iwaizumi sees a low and slender figure moving nervously behind the desk up to rest with his back against it, the coccyx landing on the old walnut shelf while his left hand’s fingers slide between the short and reddish hair, the vibrating tone of his voice kept under control only by a discipline matured from experience.

«Yeah, he’s the Penguin. What I was saying, anyway– No, no. Of course not, Mayor».

He walks away from the desk to turn to the entrance of his office, and only at that moment he seems to notice Iwaizumi, still silent and on hold. No words are performed, but Hajime moves just as the Commissioner’s hand shows him one of the two chairs in front of his desk, the only sound created by the inner part of Yaku’s forearm rubbing slightly against one of the two axillary holsters at sides of his torso.

«I _do_ understand. Just, if You could leave me and my team a chance to–…»

Iwaizumi sits in front of the Commissioner, and despite the distance that separates him from the rotary dial telephone he can clearly hear a booming and imperious voice coming from the handset, forcing the other one to distance his ear from the receiver. Yaku frowns, making an annoyed face while he patiently waits for the end of that soliloquy, nodding absently and unintentionally as he rests an other time the flushed ear on the handset.

«Sure. A week. It will be done, thank You».

And without waiting for an actual answer he puts the handset down, being careful not to bend too much the cable that connects the phone’s base with the receiver, already weakened by the usury of time.

«Elections, may be damned.»

He sums up, and as he says it he goes to sit, one hand resting tired and cranky on the forehead while thumb and middle finger spread to press themselves on his temples, their owner clearly stressed by the mental effort experienced to keep the conversation as much professional as possible.

«That old man should worry more about keeping heads of his citizens on their necks, and less about having his ass on that dusty chair».

He continues, now visibly irritated, remaining in that position for few seconds before taking a deep sigh. He removes then his hand from his face, laying it on one of the arms of the chair while he sinks against the backrest, burying himself into the soft lining.

«Bring me good news Inspector. I've never needed anything this much in my life».

«My informer will keep an eye open for us».

«Thank God».

They remain silent for a while: Iwaizumi with a slightly raised eyebrow and probably waiting to receive orders, the Commissioner with his eyes pointed to the calendar he holds on the desk, his expression corrugated and his lips tight in a grimace.

«Commissioner Yaku–»

«A week».

Iwaizumi looks at him with a note of skepticism, letting a disenchanted expression appear on his face as he tries to figure out whether the commissioner is really talking to him, or if he just unknowingly ended up to attend a soliloquy dictated by stress.

«Mayor Washijou gave us _a week_ to find the real culprit of this case, otherwise he will oblige us to close the case with Snake as the only culprit. Apparently, elections are approaching and he doesn’t want to risk weakening his electoral campaign because, as he literally said, _maybe a bunch of crazy people have decided to shoot up the whole city just more than usual_ ».

«What a news».

«As the fact that the sun sets every evening, indeed. Anyway, about your informant–»

Iwaizumi’s eyelids wear thin for a moment before he bends his head to the side, his elbow resting on the armrest as his knuckles supports the olive-colored cheek.

«Oh, for _God_ sake, don’t look at me like that. You should have realized by now I'm not going to ask you his name. I decided there are things in this job I prefer _not_ to know, and this is just one of that incredibly long list. As for example–»

And he would continue if someone’s enthusiastic scream out of the office didn’t stop him suddenly, while they can hear a couple of chairs moving from beyond the glass door, the muttering sound of a series of people who hurry to the source of that noise before returning to walk slowly, as a proof for a lack of any real danger.

«… –The reason why Ushijima chose to deal with that informant, in fact. Now he _also_ directly comes at the GCPD? As far as I know informants should remain _anonymous_ for _their_ safeguard and _our own_ , so _why_ do we even know his face?! As if it’s easy to forget it!»

Yaku shakes his head, looking for a few seconds like a wet kitten in an attempt to get rid of too much water before getting up, looking at Iwaizumi while he’s still sitting, jerking his chin for a moment in a request to follow him.

«Come on. If we want to close the case on time we need a hand, Inspector».

  
  


  
  


°°°°

  
  


  
  


**GOTHAM CITY -** _**Gotham City Police Department’s roof (GCPD)** _

**17/12/1976 - Right after**

  
  


Gotham City Police Department’s roof has nothing out of the ordinary.

Spacious, mostly gray and empty except for the high smoke hoods flourishing like trunks of trees from the naked concrete ground, some air conditioners’ motors of the highest floor placed alternately around the rough cement and the smog that swallows up the small sources of soft and hidden lights of that dark inky night vault.

The metal door closes heavily behind them as the Commissioner and Iwaizumi advance on the roof pavement, the wind cold and pungent on faces and hands, crawling under the clothes like a poison oak and making imperceptibly both of them tighten in their heavy and warm jackets.

The two policemen move a few steps forward through the breathes of smoke ascending indecisively from the pipes to the sky, and Iwaizumi lets his gaze to turn towards the other palaces for a few seconds, pointing to those rectangular lights that turn on and off as pawns of a three-dimensional chessboard in the darkness of night, wondering absentmindedly how long has it been since he was at home for dinner last time.

Not that Hajime Iwaizumi has ever considered his job as an impediment for anything, sincerely speaking. He has never minded too much to conform to what he has always considered to be useless preconceptions of society, such as sleeping during the night or respecting those five meals a day that nutritionists always try to support people to have. He simply sleeps when he doesn’t work, he eats when he’s hungry or he has time to cook something, and in general he believes he drinks enough coffee to be able to go on for hours without both, if necessary.

_Yet_.

Yet– sometimes he sees all those lights, all those people who live silently in that city he fails everyday to know and understand, and he can not help but _feel_ it: feeling that _uncomfortable_ sensation of being far away from all this, from all of them. Feeling the _awareness_ of not belonging to that world, of not being from the same cloth of those people he passes day and night protecting. A _foreign,_ maybe, in front of their society and despite him being a _guardian_ of their biodiversity: but always from _outside_ , always without really being part of _them_.

  
  


“ _We are different from the people you defend, Iwa-chan:_  
_we have only found opposite ways to prove it.”_

  
  


… Damn it. How much nervousness can lead thinking, even when not necessary, about the words of an informer so overly egocentric already?

  
  


  
  


«… It’s been years since I’ve started using this device, and yet I haven’t understood how to turn it on without it emitting smoke for at least the first three seconds. Ah, f–!»  
  
Iwaizumi's thoughts are abruptly interrupted by Yaku’s voice, and his gaze goes quickly to look for his boss, finding him beside a large-sized projector with rusty metallic parts at the base, lowered on the control panel while a hand lays on his knee, the other one pressing some illuminated buttons.

«Do you need help?»

One of the patrols already on the roof tries to ask, his look uncertain and almost softened by the scene; a real poor choice, considering he’s in front of someone like Yaku.

«No, I can do it alone, if only I could– Here!»

An the last word expresses all his proud and undisguised enthusiasm while, completely ignoring the man beside him, the Commissioner’s eyes point to the light just appeared in the sky, a black stain from many corners in a white circle, the lingering shadow of a bat with its wings spread out.  
The next minutes seem to be infinite, moments that widen like wildfire in that silent bubble of waiting at the point Iwaizumi genuinely believes it will come to suffocate him, sooner or later.  
He finds himself sitting with a long sigh on the border of the palace, lips narrowed and eyebrows frowning in an expression of nervousness as he looks at the sky, then at the commissioner, and finally down behind him, toward the road.  
  
  
  


The first one to see him is Yaku, as always.

Iwaizumi catches out of the corner of his eye the Commissioner standing up and looking ahead, and before he can ask anything he can see the shadow of a smile slipping for a moment on his superior's face. Yaku does a few steps, and only then Hajime notices a tall and dark figure standing at the center of the roof, the cape that moves like oil on the rough cement floor, creating the effect of a _nightmare_ made of _flesh_ and _darkness_.

It’s strange how even a hero – a hero? – doesn’t look like one, in such a dark city like Gotham.

Yaku arrives in front of the new arrival at the same time as Iwaizumi has convinced himself to slowly get up, and a hand goes to rest on the warm fabric of his coat, at the side of his hips. He says something, but the voice comes partially broken to the Inspector behind, probably due to the wind that still whispers on the cold and damp air coming from the river near the department.

«I started to think you wouldn’t have seen the signal tonight».

«That is unlikely to happen. Not such a quiet night, Commissioner?»

A tiny shadow of a smile takes its place on Yaku lips, before he actually answers to the masked man.

«Let’s see: the city has been under siege for days, The Penguin – who now wants to be called Snake, heaven forbid – is kept in detention on the forth underfloor of Intensive Treatment of the Arkham Asylum, but we have reason to believe the real culprit is still in freedom and that Snake is just a bait in it. Oh, and the Mayor is shuddering on his comfortable chair as if it is his last because of some elections half of Gotham citizens don’t even remember there will be, and the first person he naturally thinks of to vent his nerves is obviously in front of you. Last but not least, I have to deal with you on the roof of a building in the middle of the night, in _December._ I can nearly feel my blood freezing up there. So I would say it’s all quiet, Batman, not at all. What about you?»

  
  


°°°°  
**Batman**  
_Profession_ : General Manager, Philanthropy  
_True Name_ : Daichi Sawamura  
_Appearance_ : Man, dark, short and thick hair, eyes of the same color  
_Features_ : Trained to physical and mental solicitations, genial investigative skills, espionage expert, computer expert, master of disguise

°°°°

  
  


Iwaizumi sees them shaking hands and, as he notices Batman's jaw relaxing in contact with the other man, he can’t help but think how that scene is quite similar to the one with two old friends who meet after a long time; maybe that’s why he waits for that contact to break before standing by the Commissioner, slightly lowering his head as the greets Batman.

«Why did you call me?»

«We have – or rather, we could _unofficially_ have, a problem with what's happening in the old Gotham district, near Arkham. You surely read of the many crimes there have been in recent times, thefts, armed wars–»

Batman stays in wait, silently asking for the Commissioner to continue.

«Well, we have received testimony about Snake being the possible culprit of all this. But–»

Yaku moves the weight on the other leg while he takes a breath, index and thumb laid on his forehead as his eyes close to the world, tired of the lights and the reality that surrounds them on one hand, the sleep deprivation he has been forced to in the last days on the other.

«– Something is off. The witnesses did not appear to formally declare their depositions, and the area assaulted seems to be particularly close to Snake's activity. Who would damage companies twinned to their own throwing chaos so close to them?»

«Not Snake».

«That's what we thought too, unfortunately».

Yaku sighs, visibly relieved of being in agreement with the Dark Knight, but no less concerned about the insinuations ready to born coherently with that thesis.

«That's why I asked the Mayor to give us more time to find these witnesses, but he seems to be more interested to drop the case as soon as possible, rather than actually give to this city a real culprit. For him schemes and traps have always been a waste of time, brute force is the key to the security of his armchair. As if to say: the more people are in prison, the more we are on them».

Yaku shakes his head, visibly tired of such a different point of view from his one.

«So basically this is the thing: we have a week to prove there is something else out there, but no idea about how to track the witnesses down and start a serious investigation».

Silence falls heavy on them, impalpable and yet oppressive like Gotham's air at night: automobiles’ gases are like blankets that press heavy on the roots of the city, creating a pollution bell that blurs slightly the lights coming from the street lamps and makes the starry vault a rough blanket of dark wool.

Iwaizumi watches the clock distractedly, giving a look at the needles as the mind quickly recalls the information stored in the last few hours, and only when Batman speaks again he looks up, pointing his gaze to the pitch-black spot with dark and scathing contours.

«I will take care of it».

And at those words his eyebrows wrinkle instinctively as he opens his lips, ready to answer and ask for confirmations, or perhaps explanations. Because he is an Inspector, as well as a citizen, and the pride already inherent in his nature – and flourished like a rose with thorns due to his career – leads him to _ask_ just how Batman exactly wants to deal with it: he is quite certain behind that mask there’s a man and _not_ a metahuman, as all of them, and this puts him neither under nor _above_ all his colleagues, equal about possibilities and timing. So _how_ can he reach alone what dozens of men can’t?

«How–»

But he can’t say anything more that Batman turns away, raising an arm and pressing the trigger of the little grapple gun taken by his black utility belt, throwing the wire attached to a spool to one of the gargoyles of the near building, jumping as he activates the lashing force and disappearing in a blink of an eye in the night.

Before any question.  
Before any explanation’s request.

«Asking is useless, Inspector».

Commissioner's voice comes out slightly muffled by the presence of the scarf, and Iwaizumi turns in time to see the long lashes lowering to hide the other one’s eyes, a warm and dense breath that quickly condenses against the soft wool.

«I’ve been working for many years with Batman, and he has never told me how he gets any kind of information. Probably there are things that even justice can not attain, or at least not in a short time».

Iwaizumi's look is skeptical, a grimace of disappointment just visible through the grave and serious expression that shades his olive-colored face.

«What you are saying–»

The commissioner’s eyelids rise up and narrowed hazel irises stare at the direction taken by Batman, studying that point where the Dark Knight seems to have been welcomed by the darkness.

«Batman is Gotham’s Justice, inspector. Not Justice in general».

His face turns back to him at that point, and before Iwaizumi can notice it feline eyes lie on his, a trace of brightness that seems to be almost _radiating_ from him in clear opposition with the dimness of the place.

«The only way to get information from this city is diving in it, Iwaizumi. But don’t underestimate it, or it will never let you return to the surface. And once you are down there– »

A moment of silence, and while the wind howls in his ears Iwaizumi suddenly realizes he can finally hear it, now that they are pretty attentive and accustomed to its breathing and its language.  
Gotham is talking to him. It has never stopped talking to all of them, continuously.  
He can feel it nuzzling around them, crawling under their steps, hoarsely breathing from the manholes covers and across dark alleys, looking for someone or something, stealing what remains or what it’s enough for it to live on; he can indeed feel it, and that’s strange and wrong maybe, but it’s sufficient to make him conscious about how different from all the other cities it is, impalpable as a whisper, constantly changing as it puts down its roots in dresses and hearts of all the people who travel daily those roads as long and busy during the day, as cold and breathy at night.

« –I assure you, you can’t breathe».

And with this Yaku sets his coat, taking a few steps to the cage at the side of the roof and stopping a few meters away from it, turning to look at a still motionless Iwaizumi.

«C’mon, we must hurry if we want to find them still awake».

Iwaizumi looks at him with skepticism, a raised eyebrow as he stays in his position in an attempt to understand – at this point – what is the real role of the police in that case.  
What they are supposed to do, now that Yaku has asked to the Dark Knight to work in their place?

«Who?»

«Journalists. Inspector Semi, before throwing Ushijima's informant in jail, gave me the names of the newspaper who got the pictures of crime scenes before we got there. We have to examine them all, even those that have not been published, so maybe we will recognize some faces in the crowd».

«What about Batman?»

«Perfect for troublesome information, a bit too dark for legal ones. And therefore–»

And his teeth whiten in the night as Yaku’s lips open in a last feline smile, long and bright eyes staring at him as Iwaizumi begins to move toward him, letting him go ahead while his hand stays on the cold knob of the iron door that leads them to the department's service ladder, safe from the cold of the night.

«Could I ever leave all the fun to a man dressed as a huge bat?»

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daichi is a lovely Batman!!! //v// Even if you'll see it in the next chapter. (...) Aaaand even if Daichi is lovely in every role he has, so it's not that much a surprise, I assume. (...) What do you think about his role in this story, anyway? Let me know in the comments, if you want! See you in the next chapter!


End file.
